The Black Knave
Page 43
The fact that she’d completely disappeared, along with the village blacksmith and Neil’s own cousin had created no end of speculation. Had the blacksmith and herb grower been involved with the Black Knave? Had they been partly responsible for the death of Rory, the Marquis of Braemoor? No one but Neil knew that Rory and the Black Knave were one and the same. It was a secret he would take to the grave.
The key to the secret was the clothes hidden beneath the dirt floor of the cottage in a secret compartment. Neil had thought many times about destroying it. If Cumberland ever discovered that he’d been outfoxed by the Forbeses, both Neil’s own neck and the estates would be forfeit. And yet … yet …
He brushed aside the dirt, finding the boards that covered the cache. He pulled them up and looked inside. A black cloak, black trousers and shirt were there, along with a British uniform. And a deck of cards.
Neil had found several other decks in Rory’s chamber. He’d destroyed those. Now he picked up this deck. New. His fingers went through them, pausing at the queen of hearts. He closed his eyes.
How he envied Rory who had his heart queen, the lovely Bethia.
Neil very carefully replaced all but the deck of cards. He tucked the deck into his belt.
Then he covered the cache and went to the door, pausing only a moment before closing the door on his regrets.
Every muscle in Janet’s body ached.
True to her word, she’d put on her oldest dress and had helped the boy muck out stalls all day. For a while, at least, the animals would have some comfort. She’d also found a chest of coins, and she’d ordered oats.
Then she went back into the house. She said a quiet thanks that she’d encountered neither Marjorie nor Reginald’s wife, Louisa. They no doubt would regard her with horror. They would, in any event, when they heard that she had worked in the stables. But she felt a surge of satisfaction. She had awakened something inside herself.
For a moment, she remembered earlier days, days when she’d been a young girl out riding with her father or brother, and later, when—with the help of a stable hand—she’d slipped off alone to ride the moors and hills. She’d had dogs, a mare of her own, a family who loved her.
Then it was all gone. And she had lost part of herself with it, and even more after years of being Alasdair’s wife. Only the wee bairns had kept her going, but they had not kept alive the independent, adventurous, curious girl she’d been. Because of the girls, then her son, she’d survived, was even able to love. But she’d walled off a sizeable part of herself.
But now she felt a stirring, and she wasn’t going to let anyone spoil it. Tomorrow she’d demand to see the books. She’d already taken other steps. She’d taken one of the housemaids, Lucy, as her own personal maid. Clara, who had been promoted to nursemaid, was doing very well. The children liked her and that was Janet’s main criteria.
Now though, she longed for nothing more than a bath, then to tell the lasses a story. She determined to buy some books for them. Her father had made sure she had an education, and she would continue to see that her lasses did. Weight seemed to lift from her as Lucy brought up buckets of water and after a few tch, tch, tchs at the sight of her mistress poured them into the hip bath.
“Thank you,” Janet said, surprised that the girl still blushed with pleasure when she did so. “Will you ask Clara to bring Colin to me?”
“Aye, my lady,” Lucy said. “I can bring him, myself,” she said shyly.
“I would like that,” Janet said. Because she’d been so dirty she’d not stopped in the nursery where Colin had stayed while she worked in the stables. Now she missed him. She missed, in fact, every minute she did not spend with him. He was getting to the curious stage now, crawling and putting everything in his mouth. She loved the trusting way he looked up at her when she picked him up. He’d never had that look for his father, and she regretted that.
She quickly washed the dirt and muck away, pleased that she had tucked her hair under a cap while working. The hot water soothed the aching muscles.
Then the door opened and Lucy set a sleeping Colin in the cradle Janet had moved next to her own bed. She got up, dried herself off and stood for a moment in front of the flames in the fireplace.
She put on a nightshift, padded over to Colin and looked down at him as Lucy left the room. She reached down and picked him up, noticing how much heavier he was getting day by day. Before long he would be toddling all over Lochaene. One day, he would be its lord. And she vowed he would be a good one.
His eyes opened sleepily and he smiled a slow, lazy smile. Maternal instinct surged in her.
Nothing would ever hurt him. Not while she had a breath in her body. No matter what she had to do.
She sang a low lullaby until his eyes closed again and she gently placed him back in the cradle. Soon he would be too big for it.
Despite her weariness, she felt restless. She checked Colin once again, then headed out the door, up to the battlement. It was a clear night. The stars would be out, as would the full moon.
She quickly mounted the stone stairs. One hundred and twenty of them. She’d counted them many times. She reached the top of the tower.
The sky was a carpet of dark blue sprinkled liberally with stars. A few lacy clouds darted in and out like children playing hide-and-seek. The wind was sharp, bracing. She heard a stone clatter somewhere. She swung around. Shadows bobbed and weaved but she saw nothing. She heard the wind. Only the wind.
Yet she found herself shivering, and not from the cool, night air.
She took a last look at the full moon riding high in the sky. It was at its best, a huge bold ball decorating the heavens. The cold air stung her but it also made her feel alive. She started to move away from the edge when she saw a shadowy figure, saw it start toward her.
The lack of words, of greeting or apology, alerted her. She darted toward the stairs, making it just seconds before the shadow, and she flew down the steps. After reaching the third landing, she slowed and listened. Nothing. No sound behind her.
Her breath was coming in fast, hard gusts. Her heart pounded. Her legs felt weak. She would have sworn the figure had meant her harm, had meant to sweep her off the parapet. Her legs felt weak. She stood. Still listening.
Then she went down the stairs. She would find a servant downstairs and ask him to go up with her.
There was no one on the second floor where her rooms and Reginald’s were. She decided to try his door.
She knocked. Louisa opened it.
“Reginald,” Janet said. “Is he here?”
“No,” Louisa said. Her eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong? You look pale.”
Janet had no wish to explain herself to Louisa. She just shook her head and closed the door and continued down to the main hall. There she found MacKnight, who’d been her husband’s man. She didn’t know his first name, had never heard it.
“Will you look up on the battlement?” she asked.
He looked at her curiously, but bobbed his head, “Aye, my lady.” He took a torch from one of the wall sconces and led the way up. She followed him up the steep, stone steps.
She wasn’t surprised to find it empty. She took MacKnight’s torch and looked around the battlement. There was no sign anyone had been there.
Her foot hit a pebble and it went skidding across the stone.
“My lady?”
She felt cold. And alone.
“Thank you,” she said.
She led the way back to her chamber, then gave him the torch. An oil lamp lit her own chamber.
“Would ye be wantin’ more wood?” MacKnight asked.
She realized then she was shivering. She looked inside her room. Colin was still asleep, a thumb in his mouth. The logs in the fireplace were blazing. Several more logs lay alongside.
“No,” she said, “I am fine.”
“If ye be needing anything …”
“I’ll call you,” she said with a small smile.
Uncertain, he
stood there for a moment, then bobbed his head and backed out of the door.
Janet went to her son. He had kicked off the bedclothes. She covered him, leaned down and kissed him. It would be hard not to hover over him forever.
She looked down at her hands. They felt ice-cold.
Then she went to the window and looked out. Quiet. Everything was quiet. The few servants were abed. No strangers were outside lurking.
Had she been mistaken upstairs? And if not, who had been up there?
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About the Author
Patricia Potter is a USA Today–bestselling author of more than fifty romantic novels. A seven-time RITA Award finalist and three-time Maggie Award winner, she was named Storyteller of the Year by Romantic Times and received the magazine’s Career Achievement Award for Western Romance. Potter is a past board member and president of Romance Writers of America. Prior to becoming a fiction author, she was a reporter for the Atlanta Journal and the president of a public relations firm in Atlanta. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2000 by Patricia Potter
Cover design by Mimi Bark
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0289-9
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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